


Take This Longing From My Tongue

by jackles67



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cursed Sam, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:10:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackles67/pseuds/jackles67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's hit with a curse, and Dean finds himself taking care of his little brother in ways he never dreamed. Set in a vague post-season 4 time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take This Longing From My Tongue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kjanddean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjanddean/gifts).



> I tagged this with a warning for noncon, because it features somnophilia. No consent is given for this. There's also the dubious consent associated with any "_____ made them do it" fic. Thank you so much rose for the last minute beta (all remaining errors are mine) and sarah for the cheerleading and support.

 

Dean doesn’t notice it until three days after they finish the job. They’re in a diner somewhere in South Dakota, and he’s watching Sam pour the extra salad dressing he ordered all over his rabbit food. Sam hates dressing. He slurps it off the leaves, licks the remaining gobs off his fork, and Dean has to look away. He carefully observes the arrangement of salt and pepper shakers on a shelf behind the counter, trying to ignore the obscene sounds coming from across the table. When Dean finally turns back, smacking lips and wet sucking noises still echoing in his ears, he finds Sam frowning, oblivious to the bead of salad dressing clinging to his lower lip. Dean fights the urge to just throw a napkin at Sam, knowing a bitchface attack will ensue, and instead politely points out, “Dude, you got crap on your face. Don’t you know how to eat?”

Sam pouts and wipes at his cheeks, chin, and lips with the back of his hand, finding the stray drop. He stares at the smeared pearly liquid on his skin before bringing his hand to his mouth, pink tongue darting out to lick it clean.

“Okay seriously. How good can that salad dressing be? They put crack in it or something?” Dean asks, eyebrows raised. Sam looks up at him, mirroring his confused expression.

“What are you talking about?” Sam asks, and Dean doesn’t want to deal with the way Sam’s bound to accuse him of staring or being creepy if he explains, so he just shakes his head.

***

They’re in the hotel room, not one hour later, trying to decide where this angry spirit is likely to hit next, when Sam suddenly turns to Dean.

“Hey man, you hungry?”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. He’s the one who’s always starving, who sometimes actually has to cajole Sam into getting food. Sam’s the one who can survive on what is basically glorified grass, and apparently, salad dressing. Dean looks closer at Sam.

He’s paler than usual, and there are definitely circles under his eyes, which are looking a little dull, now that he thinks about it. Sam’s leaning back into the chair, a far cry from his usual posture. The hand holding a file before him is trembling; very slightly, but it’s there. Dean nods, thinking maybe he really does just need some food, ignoring that voice in the back of his head listing all the supernatural crap that could do this. Sam stands up, then sits right back down, long fingers rising to press at his temple.

Dean’s crouching beside Sam’s chair in an instant, one hand on Sam’s shoulder, one on his forehead.

“Sam! What’s wrong, what happened? You’re not, like, having visions or anything, are you? No sudden inexplicable rage? You can’t smell cemetery dirt, can you? Do you hear any music?” Dean’s babbling, he knows, but this is coming out of the blue and it’s affecting Sam and there aren’t even any witches involved in this fucking case anyway.

Sam shakes his head once, like a dog clearing its ears of water, and turns to Dean.

“ ‘M fine. Just dizzy for a second, you know, like headrush?” Sam says, blinking at Dean. Dean checks Sam’s pulse, checks him for a fever, peers into his eyes. He just looks... Tired. And hungry. Dean nods and keeps a hand on Sam’s elbow as he slowly stands, ignoring the raised brow it earns him.

They get food, and this time Sam orders a burger with extra special sauce and a side of fries with extra special sauce. Dean watches Sam dip the fries in the unidentifiable sauce then slowly suck them into his mouth. Halfway through the meal, Sam is starting to look more and more frustrated. Dean doesn’t say anything, distracted by the way Sam seems to be trying to squeeze the burger into dripping sauce before he takes each bite.

Sam is quiet the rest of the day, and that night Dean hears him toss and turn, an occasional muffled whine emanating from Sam’s bed.

***

The next day Sam is gray-faced and weak, the tremor in his hands and shoulders more pronounced. The day after that Dean stops working on the angry spirit case, and starts looking up weakening curses, wasting curses, famine curses. Sam hasn’t gotten out of bed, and Dean doesn’t have it in him to force him to. Instead, Dean brings him soup (“I want cream of potato. Or cream of chicken. Or cream of mushroom. Mmm, yeah Dean, get me cream of mushroom”), piles more blankets on him, and lets him watch whatever he wants.

It’s early evening when Dean hears a croak that he belatedly realizes is his name. He sits on his bed, within arms reach of the mountain of blankets that is currently his brother.

“Yeah Sam? I’m right here.” Dean says, stroking a bulge in the bedding that looks like it might be Sam’s shoulder.

“Stop touching my ass.” Sam grumbles, and Dean quickly withdraws his hand, marvelling at Sam’s ability to inject bitchiness into his voice even when he’s this weak.

“What’s up, Sam?” Dean asks, trying to sound exasperated and not worried.

“I... I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Sam starts, and pauses. Dean rolls his eyes. That much is pretty fucking obvious. “I think I know what can make it better, though. I’ve been having these... cravings.”

Dean freezes, mind immediately jumping to demon blood. He’s afraid to ask, but on the other hand, better to know now, nip that idea in the bud.

“Sam. Listen, I know you felt stronger with that stuff, but I don’t think it’s going to do anything for you now. This is something different,” Dean says reasonably.

“What are you talking about?” Sam says, the blankets shifting as he turns, presumably to face Dean.

“The demon blood. Look Sammy, you might be having cravings now, but you gotta remember how bad it was, okay? It’s not worth going down that road again.”

There was another rustle and Sam’s head pokes out of the blankets, hair sticking up on one side, plastered to his face on the other, eyes bleary.

“I’m not craving blood, Dean. God, I can’t believe you would even think that! I’m craving come.” Sam snaps his mouth shut as soon as the words are out, a blush rising on his cheeks.

Dean’s brain stumbles on that last bit, then goes fuzzy.

“Come? Like come, come? Jizz? Spunk? Spooge? Se-”

“Dean! Yes, that kind of come,” Sam interrupts, face so red Dean can almost feel the heat coming off it.

“And you think this is related to your curse thing?” Dean asks.

“Well, it’s not like I’m usually walking around thinking, _wow, I’d really like a big load of come in my mouth right about now, yeah, that’d be great_ ,” Sam says, dripping sarcasm.

Dean actually blushes a little bit at that.

“Yeah, no, I know, Sammy. So... let’s get you some...” He trails off as he realizes they’re going to have to find some random stranger, and one of them is going to somehow have to obtain his come. An unwanted image of Sam kneeling before an unpleasant-looking trucker jacking off into his open mouth drops into Dean’s brain, and he shakes his head, trying to dislodge it. There has to be some other way. The answer hits Dean so hard he almost laughs.

“We don’t have to go anywhere, you got a supply right there! I mean I know it might seem gross, but at least it’s not some stranger’s jizz in your mouth, right Sammy? I’ve done it a few times myself, you know, it’s not that bad,” Dean says, suddenly cheerful. Sam looks awkwardly down at his hands, and Dean starts to feel a hint of worry that his perfect solution isn’t so perfect after all.

“I already tried, Dean. I think it has to be someone else’s.” Sam won’t meet Dean’s eyes.

“Okay, well, don’t worry Sammy, we’ll get you some,” Dean says, trying to maintain that cheerfulness in spite of the pit of uneasiness gnawing at his stomach. Sam nods gratefully and lies back down, the revelation having apparently exhausted him. Dean procrastinates bringing up the specifics of the plan until Sam falls asleep, less than ten minutes later.

***

Sam has the same dreams again. Hot come spurting into his mouth, salty and bitter flavors bursting on his tongue as the liquid slides down his throat, deep into him, warming him up, filling him, nourishing him.

He wakes up tangled in the sheets, sweaty and shivering, hot and cold, not wanting to move an inch. There’s a dull thudding ache starting at his temple, threatening to grow into a full fledged headache at any moment. He curls into a ball, groaning at the effort, and Dean is at his side in an instant.

“Sam? Sam, you awake? You need anything?” Dean asks, one hand coming down to press against Sam’s forehead, one reaching to pull another blanket over Sam’s shaking body.

“ ‘M’okay Dean. Tired. I need...” Sam can’t bring himself to say it, but he figures Dean understands. Dean nods and turns to grab his jacket, placing Sam’s cell on the bedside table.

“I’ll get it. Call me if you need anything else.”

***

Dean’s always felt better when he’s in action, when he can do something about a problem, and this is no exception. Until it is. Dean’s full of optimism and gritty get-it-done bravado until he’s in the town’s only bar, deciding whether the overweight guy with the crappy beer clenched in his giant ham of a fist is better than the creepy looking dude with the handlebar mustache. He settles on the middle-aged man in a suit who’s not being subtle as he stares at Dean’s ass. Dean goes over to sit in the booth next to the guy and leans in close, no preamble.

“Hey, you wanna get out of here?” Dean whispers, letting his lips brush against the man’s ear. A shudder goes through the guy, and Dean hides his grin, sliding a hand up the guy’s thigh.

“Fuck yeah,” the guy replies, and Dean leads him out to the Impala.

Dean’s not really sure how to do this. There’s no way he’s letting this stranger anywhere near Sam, especially when Sam’s as weak as he is now. That doesn’t give Dean a lot of options, so he settles for dumping yesterday’s coffee out of his cup and leaving it in the holder, then driving halfway down the street. He pulls over behind what looks like a closed down store and turns to face his new come-supplier.

“Lean back,” Dean says, and the guy immediately complies, opening his mouth like he’s gonna say something. He doesn’t quite get the words out, because Dean’s stroking the guy’s cock through his pants, gently at first, then harder, feeling it grow stiff under his fingers. He quickly undoes the guy’s pants and pulls out his cock, licking his lips. He’s not particularly excited about doing this, but he does know how to make it good. He knows he could probably have jacked the guy off, but it seems a little rude to pull him out of a bar just for a hand job. Anyway, this won’t be the first cock Dean’s sucked.

Dean licks up the shaft, getting it slick, before wrapping his lips around the head and sliding down. The head bumps against the back of Dean’s throat, and he doesn’t bother trying to push further, instead wrapping a hand around the rest and stroking in time with his bobbing head. Dean adds a lick and a hint of teeth here and there, well-appreciated touches if the grunts and heavy breathing above him are anything to go by. The guy doesn’t bother warning Dean, but Dean can tell anyway from the way the thigh he’s leaning on tenses and the hand on his head tightens. He sucks hard, trying to pump every drop of come out of the guy, before pulling off and reaching blindly for the cup. He spits into it and leans back into his seat.

Dean drives the man back to the bar, refusing his offers of reciprocation, not bothering to learn a name, knowing he’ll forget the face as soon as it’s gone. He drives too fast, pulling into the motel parking lot mere minutes later, and practically runs to the room, fumbling with the keys, trying not to drop the cup.

When Dean gets inside, he finds Sam sprawled on the bed, eyes closed, moaning softly. Dean rushes to Sam’s side and pulls his brother half into his lap, holding his head as he brings the cup to Sam’s lips. He tips the come into Sam’s open mouth, watching as it slowly slides out over the lip of the cup and onto Sam’s tongue.

The instant the whitish fluid hits Sam’s tongue, he lets out an obscene moan and pushes his tongue up into the cup, lapping up every drop he can find. When the cup is clean and Sam has licked his lips several times, he drops back to the bed and sighs.

Dean stares at the cup in his hand. He tells himself that a show like that would turn anyone on, that the uncomfortable tightness of his jeans is a purely physical reaction to watching someone lick and swallow come like they needed it. Which Sam does, apparently.

Sam’s already looking better, his eyes brighter than they’ve been for days, and he sits up without trouble. They look at each other and grin, before the corners of Sam’s mouth turn down.

“Where did you get it?” Sam asks, and Dean looks away.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” he says, trying for cheerful, ruffling Sam’s hair. Sam slaps Dean’s hand away and forces him to meet his eyes. Sam’s stares at Dean intently, eyes leaving Dean’s to roam over his face, gaze catching on Dean’s puffy, bruised lips. Dean sees Sam’s eyes widen slightly, then he turns away.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Sam says softly, still not looking at Dean.

“‘Course I did. ‘Sides, it’s just a blowjob. Not like, oh, say, dying for you or something,” Dean says sarcastically. Sam rolls his eyes and gets out of bed, stretching.

“Nnnnngg. Feels so good to be up. Where are we on the angry spirit?”

***

It only takes Sam one day to get “hungry” again. This time, he tells Dean right away. They’re stuck in traffic, and it’s driving both of them crazy, claustrophobia itching at Dean, sweltering heat suffocating Sam.

“I think we’re going to have to actually look into who’s doing this,” Sam says.

They look at each other, and simultaneously say, “Witches.”

“Why’s it always gotta be witches, man? Witches and their bodily fluids, fuckin’ disgusting.” Dean wrinkles his nose, and Sam rolls his eyes, already halfway to bitchface.

“Listen, you’re not the one that has to crave jizz all the time, so don’t go around complaining,” Sam says, in that I-have-it-worse-than-anyone voice.

“I’m the one that had to suck off some random in the front seat of my car, so yeah, I think I will complain,” Dean snaps, regretting the words the moment they leave his mouth.

Sam’s mouth thins and he turns to face the window. He doesn’t speak again until they check in to the motel, and then it’s just to announce he’s taking first shower.

***

When Dean steps out of the bathroom, he finds the room empty. He has that familiar moment of “where’s Sam” panic before he spots the scrap of paper on the table.

_Dean,_

_Went to get my fix. Don’t worry, be back soon._

_-S_

Dean curses and throws on some clothes, snagging his keys and his gun on the way out. This is a one bar town and Dean can’t imagine Sam going anywhere else to get... that. Dean takes the Impala, Sam must have walked. He floors it the whole way there, parks in a way that somehow manages to take up three spots, and bursts through the door of the bar with his hand on his gun. Which, in retrospect, is possibly not the best move, given the way every face in the joint turns to stare at him. It only takes a second of scanning the crowd for Dean to realize Sam’s not there, and he shoves his way past the bar’s patrons to the back door.

Dean finds Sam with his back to the rough alley wall, letting some guy palm his ass. Dean's barely rounded the corner when Sam flips them, gets the guy against the wall and sinks to his knees without a sound. Sam's uncomfortable, maybe even scared; Dean can see it in the set of his shoulders, the fumbling way he unbuckles the guy's pants.

Sam gives a yelp when Dean yanks him up by the elbow, shooting the other guy a look that has him scrambling out of the alley.

"What's your problem?" Sam snaps, yanking his arm back from Dean with a small stumble. He tries to cover it up by adjusting his clothes, but Dean can see the way Sam's leaning against the wall for support, the way he's breathing fast and shallow and his eyes are slightly unfocused. The sight drains the anger from Dean; suddenly all he wants is to get Sam back to the safety of the motel room, make sure he’s warm in his bed and take care of him.

“You know better,” Dean mutters, getting his arm around Sam’s waist and hauling him back towards the car. Sam doesn’t fight him, and it worries Dean almost as much as the way Sam’s movements are getting clumsy, the way Sam’s leaning too much of his weight on Dean.

Dean manages to get Sam in the passenger seat and they’re halfway back to the motel before Sam finds his tongue again.

“Dean - I need - ” Sam falls silent, but his eyes keep flicking down Dean’s body and it would be funny except for the way Dean’s body is responding, cock thickening in his jeans at the thought of what they’re about to do.

“I know,” is all Dean can manage, and Sam heaves a sigh of relief, finally settling into the seat.

***

"Okay, okay, here we go," Dean murmurs, gently depositing Sam on the bed. He practically had to carry Sam into the motel room, and Sam’s not a skinny little kid anymore.

"Hurry," Sam mumbles, and Dean almost smiles at how much he sounds like a kid, just a hint of a whine behind the hunger. Dean kicks off his boots and sits back against the headboard, getting his hands on his belt buckle. He only hesitates for a second - maybe he should do this in the bathroom, get it in a cup and give it to Sam like that - but Sam’s moaning again, body turning until he's curled on his side with his eyes fixed on Dean's hands.

Dean gets his zipper down and pulls out his cock, carefully ignoring the fact that he's already half hard. He gets a hand around the base and strokes up once, swiping the pad of his thumb over the tip, smearing precome down, trying not to linger at that spot just under the head the way he usually would. This isn't about feeling good, it's about getting Sammy what he needs - as fast as possible.

Dean tries to keep his eyes on his own dick, pumping up through the circle of his fingers, but Sam’s _right there_ \- face barely a foot away from Dean’s cock, and Sam has no reservations about where his gaze lands. He’s staring desperately at Dean’s hand on his dick, licking his lips and letting out these tiny, hitching breaths like he’s holding himself back, and Dean wonders how far he’d go to get what he needs, if he’s so hungry for it he’d go straight to the source - get those slick, pink lips around Dean’s cock and suck the come out himself.

The image sends a wave of hot shame and pleasure rolling through Dean, from his toes to the tip of his cock and suddenly he’s _there_ , about to come. He barely has time to let out a strangled _Sammy_ and Sam’s lunging forward like he’s going to do it, going to get his mouth on Dean’s cock, but Dean’s last shreds of shame and self control have him turning his hips away from Sam, getting his other hand cupped around the head of his cock so he can capture every last pulse of hot come leaving his body while Sam weakly tries to tug Dean back towards him.

Dean turns slow, chest still heaving, hand carefully held out to avoid losing a drop. He’s not even all the way back on his side before Sam has trembling fingers clamped around Dean’s wrist, drawing his hand toward Sam’s mouth and then there’s a warm tongue laving over Dean’s hand, dipping into the come pooled in his palm, slicking over and between Dean’s fingers, lapping at stray drops.

Dean’s spent cock gives a painful twitch when Sam’s mouth closes over the tip of his middle finger, sinks down on it, and there’s just no way for that sight to be anything but suggestive. The inside of Sam’s mouth is soft and wet, almost too hot, and Dean finds it all too easy to imagine that gentle suction on his cock, the perfect press of Sam’s tongue up against the underside.

 _Fuck_. He can’t be thinking these things, can’t be picturing Sam’s eager pink mouth on him, can’t imagine Sam so desperate for his come that he’ll do anything, beg to suck Dean’s cock. It’s wrong and it’s sick and it’s taking advantage, and Dean _can’t stop._

Dean’s shaking by the time Sam falls back against the bed, looking sated and relaxed and better than he has in days. Sam drops off to sleep immediately, but Dean tosses and turns in his own bed for what feels like hours before finally falling into fitful sleep.

***

Sam is kneeling at the foot of Dean’s bed, eyes fixed on Dean’s exposed cock. Dean’s legs are sprawled apart and he’s so hard it almost hurts, every inch of him screaming for Sam to hurry up and start touching him. Something in the back of his mind is whispering that this is wrong, this isn’t supposed to happen, but Dean shoves it down in favor of arching his back a little, lifting his hips in the hopes that Sam will get the message.

Apparently it works, because the next thing Dean knows, Sam’s nosing at the soft part of Dean’s inner thigh, pressing a wet, open kiss against the crease before finally getting that soft, hot mouth on Dean’s cock. Sam just licks over it first, tongue sliding up the shaft and curling against the head, letting out a low moan when he reaches the drop of precome beading at the slit.

Dean wakes with a start when Sam’s mouth finally closes over the flushed head of his cock, his whole body jolting twice, first with surprise and then with pleasure as the move pushes his cock deeper down Sam’s throat. Sam’s really there, curled up between Dean’s legs in the dark motel room, his face buried between Dean’s thighs and his mouth sealed tight around Dean’s cock. His eyes are closed, brows knitted in concentration, and Dean’s not entirely sure he’s fully awake.

It takes Dean a few seconds to stop rocking his hips up into his brother’s mouth and start trying to scramble away, but once he does, Sam’s eyes fly open and his hands come down to grip Dean’s hips.

“Please,” Sam begs, though he backs off enough to let Dean know he won’t push it. “Please, I need it so bad. _Dean_.”

Fuck, Dean’s going to hell. Again. There’s no fucking way Dean’s going to be able to say no. He tells himself it’s the built-in drive to take care of Sam, that _need_ to give Sam everything, but in the back of Dean’s mind, he knows it’s a fucking lie.

Somehow, it doesn’t matter, because Dean’s hand pushes gently through the hair falling into Sam’s face, comes around to cradle the back of Sam’s head and Sam pushes into the touch like he needs the reassurance. Dean only has to apply the slightest pressure to the back of Sam’s head for Sam to let out a sigh of relief and drop back down on Dean’s cock like he’s dying for it.

Sam keeps his hands tight on Dean’s hips as he bobs his head, pushing himself down further onto Dean’s cock with every stroke until Dean can feel the back of his throat opening, until Dean’s cock is pushing into that impossibly tight space. Dean feels drugged, still too close to sleep and with no defenses, and he can’t stop his body from responding to every slick drag of tongue on skin, every perfect press of Sam’s lips. Pleasure curls his toes, has him spreading this thighs and trying to lift his hips, arching his back and then coming up on his elbows to watch.

Getting a good look at Sam is a terrible idea, because the second Dean sees the way Sam’s face is flushed, the way Sam’s pink mouth is so eagerly sucking at Dean’s cock, the way the muscles in Sam’s back bunch and stretch as he rolls his hips against the mattress, it’s over. Dean’s balls draw up tight and he has time for one surprised thought - _Sam’s getting off to this, Sam’s rubbing himself against the mattress while he sucks my cock because he likes it_ \- and then Dean’s pulsing come down Sam’s throat and Sam is swallowing desperately, sucking so hard it’s almost painful.

When Sam has sucked every last drop of come from Dean’s cock and every touch of his tongue is like fire on Dean’s oversensitized skin, Dean finally manages to push Sam away with a heavy hand on his shoulder. Dean’s about to ask if Sam needs a minute alone to take care of his own orgasm before he notices the way Sam is gingerly keeping his hips off the bed, a dark, shiny patch of wetness in the front of Sam’s boxers making Dean’s mind grind to a halt for the nth time tonight. _Sam came in his underwear while I came down his throat._

It’s more than Dean can take right now, but he desperately needs to make this okay, so he collapses back against the bed and stares up at the ceiling as he tries to find his voice.

“So the curse makes you, uh, _like_ it, huh?” Nice. Very articulate. Dean cringes, waits for Sam to snark back at him, and looks up when when he’s met with nothing but silence.

Sam’s face is burning crimson and there’s this look on his face, like he’s been caught out, like he’s… scared.

“Wha-” Dean starts, already halfway to reaching for Sam out of sheer instinct, pulse picking up, like he’s hardwired to respond to Sam’s fear.

Sam pulls away, sitting at the edge of the bed with his shoulders hunched, looking for all the world like a guilty little boy and it makes Dean’s chest ache.

“That part - that wasn’t the curse.” Sam’s voice is almost too quiet to make out. “That part was me.”

Dean’s body goes hot, then cold, then numb with shock.

“What do you mean?” Dean pushes out shakily, like he doesn’t already know, like it isn’t written in every line of Sam’s miserable, guilty body language.

Sam shrugs, trying to turn away, and, suddenly, Dean needs him to say it.

“Just tell me.”

“I want you, okay? And not just your come,” Sam adds bitterly. Dean had thought he was all out of shock, but apparently not, because he feels like his heart is going to race right out of his chest, and somewhere behind the roaring in his ears, he can hear Sam saying something. Dean makes himself focus back down to Sam’s voice, still low and broken-sounding.

“I won’t make you do it again, Dean. I won’t - I know you’re just trying to take care of me, but I can’t do this to you, won’t fuck you up like me, won’t -”

Dean cuts Sam off before he can ramble himself into an actual frenzy. Sam’s mouth tastes like come, the bitter-salt remnants barely faded from his lips, and he gasps softly into Dean’s mouth before he starts to kiss back, melting helplessly into Dean’s touch, like he couldn’t stop if he tried, and Dean knows just how he feels. 

When they finally pull apart, they're both breathing heavy, Dean's hands fisted in Sam's shirt, Sam's own hands tight on Dean's arms. 

"Not just doing this to take care of you, you hear me?" Dean says, his voice low and rough. Sam's eyes are wide and fixed on Dean's, but he nods like he believes it. They stay like that for a while, just looking, still barely an inch apart. When Sam finally speaks, he's quiet, and to Dean's dismay, there are still traces of guilt in his voice. 

"Dean, it's getting worse. I need - I'm gonna need it again, and I don't know -" Sam's voice goes shaky and Dean gets his arms around him, pulls him into his arms. 

"Shh, hey, it's okay," Dean says into Sam's hair, smoothing a hand down Sam's back like he used to when they were little. "I'll take care of you. I'll give you what you need 'til we find who did this."

Sam nods against him and lets Dean pull him down onto the bed, lets Dean peel him out of his sticky boxers and clean him up. Dean crawls under the covers and passes out, bone-tired, one arm slung over Sam's already-sleeping form.

***

Sam’s whimpering and writhing under the sheets, voice still muffled and vague in a way that lets Dean know he’s still asleep. Dean’s hand is an inch away from Sam’s shoulder when he manages to make out the words Sam’s mumbling into his pillow.

“Dean… Please, Dean, need it, please, need it so bad.”

Dean flushes, his breath coming a little faster, heart pounding a little harder. Sam’s still moving against the bed and now that Dean looks for it, he can see the way Sam’s hips are grinding down into the mattress, no rhythm or finesse to his movements. Dean looks on, dazed, until he comes to his senses and closes a hand around Sam’s shoulder.

The gentle shake Dean gives him does nothing but draw a low moan as Sam is rocked against the bed. Dean tries again, a little harder this time, but Sam’s completely out. Dean knows his brother; Sam’s a light sleeper - the hunter’s life will do that to a guy - so Dean figures the hunger must be weakening him again. At least that’s something Dean knows how to fix.

Another long moan sends a shudder down Dean’s spine and he drops a hand to his filling cock, watching as Sam’s face creases with discomfort and his pink tongue darts out to wet his lips.

Dean doesn’t realize what he’s doing until he’s trailing his fingertip over the wetness left by Sam’s tongue, pushing at Sam’s lower lip and then slipping inside. Sam’s lips immediately close around the digit, sucking it into his hot, wet mouth, tongue licking at it, searching, and Dean’s cock jumps at the thought that Sam’s looking for come.

Dean can’t resist pushing another finger into Sam’s mouth just to see how Sam’s pink lips stretch. Sam’s mouth is warm and welcoming and impossibly soft around Dean’s thick fingers, leaving them shiny wet when Dean finally draws them out. Sam tries to follow, still helpless and asleep but so fucking needy. He needs Dean, and Dean’s going to give him exactly what he’s begging for.

It’s easy to push and pull until Sam’s laid out on his back, his cock an obscene tent under the sheets, hair sticking to his sweat-damp forehead. Dean crawls to his knees at Sam’s shoulder and sits back on his heels to pull his cock free of his underwear. He gasps at the first touch of his own wet fingers on himself, gives his cock a few slow jerks before leaning forward, over Sam.

The head of Dean’s cock is mere inches from Sam’s wet, parted lips, and Dean closes the small space agonizingly slowly, forcing himself to hold back until he’s barely touching the very tip of his cock against Sam’s lower lip, shuddering at the silk-smooth slide. He doesn’t push inside - that somehow feels even more wrong than this already does - just slowly jerks his cock, pushing drop after drop of precome onto Sam’s waiting lips.

Sam’s tongue keeps darting out to catch the shiny beads of precome and Dean has to suppress the urge to follow it down into Sam’s mouth, to feed his cock into that tight wet space and fuck until he comes down Sam’s throat. The thought has Dean jerking his cock faster, tightening his fist, and when the head of his cock bumps against Sam’s mouth just a little too hard, Sam shifts closer and his lips close over the very tip of Dean’s cock.

The sensation of Sam’s soft lips against the head of Dean’s cock is almost too much, and combined with the image of Sam’s mouth latched onto him, Dean finds himself bracing his free hand against the wall as he starts to jerk himself roughly.

It only takes a few strokes, harder and faster than Dean would usually go but he can’t seem to hold himself back, before he’s letting out a loud groan and coming with a shudder. The first few pulses land on Sam’s tongue, but Dean can’t seem to resist pulling back to watch the rest spatter across Sam’s open mouth.

Sam stirs with the first swallow, eyelashes fluttering as he blinks sleepily up at Dean. His mouth and cheeks are still flushed pink and striped with come, and he licks his lips, gathering every drop he can find. Dean leans down, still shaky with aftershocks of pleasure, and slides his tongue over Sam’s warm skin, tasting salt and slight bitterness as he pushes his own come past Sam’s lips. Dean finds Sam’s cock with his hand and starts pumping it slow and steady as he licks every drop of come from Sam’s cheeks and feeds it to Sam.

Sam’s cock is thick and heavy in Dean’s hand, and he doesn’t realize until he’s swiping his thumb across the head and slicking his fist that this is the first time he’s touched Sam like this. He doesn’t have it in him to panic, though, because Sam is sucking greedily at his tongue and rolling his hips up into Dean’s hand, pushing his cock through Dean’s fist over and over and Dean pulls away slightly to lick the rest of the come from Sam’s chin.

Sam comes with Dean’s tongue in his mouth, body arching up and shuddering as Dean works him through it, wringing every last ounce of pleasure from Sam’s body until they both collapse down against the bed.

Tomorrow they’ll find the witch. Tomorrow, Dean will hold a knife to that witch’s throat until his brother’s okay again, or as okay as either of them can get. But for tonight, Dean curls closer to Sam’s body and lets himself believe that this is going to work, that this curse hasn't shattered this thing between them, whatever it is.

 _Yeah,_ Dean thinks, as Sam burrows closer to him under the blanket.  _We're gonna be okay._

***

 

  
  



End file.
